by Coco Ma
She fought to see Priscilla. “Eadric! What in hell? Let go!”
He shook her, hard. “Asterin, listen to me. Priscilla is not who we thought she was.”
The blood drained from her face. “No. No. You don’t mean—”
His grip on her tightened. “I do.”
Asterin’s lips moved in silent denial. “But Garringsford’s suspicion-dampening spell—”
The realization struck him like a slap in the face. Everything clicked into place. “Asterin, it wasn’t Garringsford’s spell. It was Priscilla’s.”
At that moment, Priscilla collapsed to the ground and curled up into a ball, moaning. Guards and guests alike rushed to her aid, but scrambled backward when a black gas began oozing from her contorted body.
The easiest part of Eadric’s job had come after his announcement—slipping the cork off the vial filled with contralusio in his pocket. As he had risen from the ground, he bumped into Laurel, who had disguised herself as a server. She now joined the four other Elite Royal Guards forming a protective circle around Asterin. After Eadric stealthily emptied the vial into Priscilla’s drink instead of Garringsford’s, as they had originally planned, it had simply been a matter of waiting—and praying that he had chosen right in trusting Harry.
A man with sand-gold hair, who Eadric recognized as the King of Ibreseos, strode forward, his expression thunderous as he pushed through the whispering crowd. He made to help a writhing Priscilla when she threw up a hand, halting him in his tracks.
“No, Your Majesty, please,” she hissed. “Stay back.” She staggered to her feet, covering her face in the crook of her elbow and ducking away from the eyes of hundreds.
And then she bolted from the dais, diving into the crowd and shoving her way past the guests in an effort to flee the ballroom.
“Stop her!” Eadric shouted, lunging after her and leaving Asterin behind.
The Duke of Orielle’s eyes bugged out of his head. “How dare you speak of Her Majesty like so!”
Priscilla made it halfway through the dense throng of people when the bare skin on her shoulder blades began to swell. Eadric forgot how to breathe as two spindly protrusions burst forth, tearing through her dress, unfolding into a pair of leathery wings—
Guests screamed, royals and servers alike scrambling away from Priscilla, which only allowed her to flee faster.
“Shadow! She’s using shadow magic!” Queen Valeria of Volterra cried out. Gasps of outrage rippled through the hall.
From the entrance to the ballroom, the other five Elites flooded in with Alicia in the lead. Eadric signaled, both to the Elites and the palace guards. “Seize Queen Priscilla!”
Many of the guards froze, conflicted at the order to assail the woman they had sworn to protect. Some shook off their dazes quickly, their deep aversion to dark magic outweighing their qualms.
And some, to Eadric’s dismay, turned on their fellow soldiers. Guards in Axarian colors that he didn’t recognize, guards General Garringsford had recruited without his approval. There are so many, he thought numbly. I was gone for too long.
“Witch!” Prince Sol of Morova snarled at Priscilla, palms blazing with white light. His escorts tried to drag him to safety, but he wouldn’t budge.
Several guests roared their assent, shaking their fists and adding their own disgusted cries. “Witch!”
“Guards!” Priscilla screamed. She had drawn her affinity stone from her bodice to amplify her voice. “Defend me!” Then she plunged into the churning sea of guests, losing herself in the crowd. Commands drowned in the clamor. No one knew who to trust. The Elites wrestled their way closer to Priscilla, but Garringsford’s soldiers—Priscilla’s soldiers—met them with swords and spells.
Meanwhile, the guests still present had also joined the melee—royals, nobles, and their escorts alike. As Eadric elbowed his way toward Priscilla, he saw the crackle of energy as his own distant kin—the House of the Falcon—blasted past guards defending the queen. The dancing flames of candles and torches guttered out as the King of Galanz and his daughter, Rowena, as well as other descendants of the House of the Stallion, sent explosive gusts of wind howling through the room, throwing the guards attacking the Elites into the air like rag dolls.
Reinforcements poured through the ballroom entrance. Eadric almost breathed a sigh of relief until he realized that they were reinforcements for Priscilla. And they didn’t stop coming.
The ground trembled as Queen Valeria, an earth-wielder of the House of the Stag, stepped forward. Cracks splintered down the floor as she stomped, sending a dozen reinforcement soldiers toppling. Young Prince Viyo giggled as he smacked a couple more with a large chunk of floating marble, exclaiming, “Traitor!” every time one went down.
The ballroom plunged into darkness, the light sucked away before folding like paper into flashes of white to reveal Prince Sol of the House of the Lynx, moving as fast as light itself, attacking enemy guards from every direction at once.
Rose herself was a hurricane, stationed in the center of the room. She had shed her beautiful dress to reveal her dark blue combat suit. Half a dozen of Priscilla’s guards tried to open a route for Priscilla to escape, but Rose simply raised her arm. Beads of liquid bent and twisted at her will, cramming themselves down the traitors’ throats and drowning them right where they stood.
The most powerful individuals on the planet, all packed into a single hall.
And fighting back-to-back with Rose was a single warrior, clad in a hooded gray uniform that gave away no hints of his identity or origin. He used no magic—only his mind-blowing skill with his knives, a dazzling blur of steel and iron, so fast and precise that even Quinlan would have been envious. He and Rose moved around one another in a graceful dance of destruction, as fluid as water itself with the practiced ease Eadric knew could only have come from training together for years on end.
Priscilla staggered forward, thrown off-balance by her still growing wings. Eadric had almost caught up to her when he heard the shriek of metal at his left. He drew his own blade just in time to meet the blow, inches from his neck.
General Garringsford quirked a brow at him over their crossed swords. He barely managed to parry her next thrust. “You’re out of practice, Captain Covington,” the general taunted as he struggled to keep up.
Eadric whirled around to strike. “I’ve been busy hunting demons.” She danced away from his blade. “Why are you doing this, General?”
Her counterattack ripped through his sleeve, steel biting into his skin. He felt almost nothing, numbed by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “I have no choice,” said Garringsford. “I’ll kill anyone to bring them back.”
Eadric faltered, which nearly cost him his head. “Them? Who’s them?”
The general clenched her jaw, breathing hard. “Who else?”
“Your sons are dead, Carlotta,” Eadric said.
She lunged forward again. Their swords clashed as they trembled in a deadly duel of strength, neither willing to back down. “Priscilla promised she would bring them back.”
He scoffed, sweat rolling down his temple. “You can’t bring back the dead.”
Garringsford snarled, ramming him back in a surge of strength. “She promised.”
Eadric tripped and crashed onto his back. He rolled just in time for her sword to cleave a gash in the floor where he had fallen a mere heartbeat before. She struck with such force that a chunk of marble flew up and nearly took his eye out. Like a feral dog, she pounced once more, her usual vicious grace giving way to something desperate, something primal. He threw his sword up to block her, one hand braced against the flat of the blade. Blood ran down his palm as Garringsford pressed harder. He bit down on an agonized groan, arms shaking. Just as his hand began to slip—too much blood—Garringsford’s eyes widened and the pressure against his sword relented.
Eadric
looked from their locked swords to the bright-scarlet steel point protruding from her chest.
Slowly, Garringsford’s gaze followed his. Her grip loosened on her sword, and Eadric finally disarmed her. She sagged to her knees, the light fading from her eyes.
Behind her stood Alicia.
“Captain,” the young Elite panted, hands still wrapped around the hilt of her own sword—which she had just plowed into Garringsford’s back. Blood pooled around Alicia’s boots. “Captain … please tell me that I just did the right thing.”
Eadric staggered to his feet. Priscilla, I need to get to Priscilla. “You—you did. You saved my life.”
The tension in her frame deflated, and she pulled her sword out of the general’s back. “Thank the Immortals.” Her eyes were still glued to Garringsford’s face when a guard attacked from the side. Eadric sprang forward to shove her away, deflecting the blade. Even with his injury, the soldier was no match against him. Eadric slammed the hilt of his sword into the soldier’s forehead, knocking him out cold.
“Regroup with the other Elites,” Eadric ordered, but Alicia didn’t budge, her gaze dragging up and down the blood still dripping down her sword. Her first kill. “Alicia. I know it’s hard, but you have to forget about this for now. You have to stay focused. I’m depending on you. Asterin is depending on you.”
The spark returned to Alicia’s eyes. She saluted. “Yes, Captain!” With that, she dashed toward the exit, where Silas and Hayley were evacuating guests.
Eadric ran in the opposite direction—into the chaos.
Priscilla forged her way toward the exit like a valiant knight, hissing and thrashing out at random, but just as Eadric managed to get within an arm’s reach of those monstrous wings, two colossal spires of ice erupted out of the marble floor, knocking the woman onto her knees. Jagged shackles of frost surged from the spires and encircled her wrists and ankles, yanking her high off the ground.
The Elites ran forward, affinity stones drawn, and surrounded the dangling woman on all sides.
Priscilla Montcroix-Faelenhart was truly a sight to behold. The midnight-black leathery wings had ripped the back of her silk gown to shreds. No one could stop staring at her, but not for the usual reasons—her stunning features were nothing now. Her skin seemed like an ill-fitting coat, pulling taut in some places and sagging off her frame in others. The hue of her once pale skin had darkened to a mottled yellowish-gray. Her soft, pink mouth had been replaced by lipless fangs and a long tongue covered in ridges. Several people retched.
Asterin stepped out of the crowd, palms crackling with frost. Orion and the two Eradorians jostled their way to her side.
“Priscilla Alessandra Montcroix-Faelenhart,” the Princess of Axaria announced. Eadric shivered as the temperature dropped, frost creeping along the floor. Priscilla’s bloodshot eyes slitted. “Before hundreds of witnesses, I charge you with treason and the use of the forbidden tenth element, thereby breaking international magic law. Such acts are punishable by death.”
“And who might you be?” Priscilla spat, straining against her bonds, her voice diminished to nothing but a dry rasp.
Asterin pulled out the second vial of contralusio and downed it in one go. “The rightful ruler of Axaria,” she said as Luna’s illusions faded. Unlike Rose, Asterin had never shied from the public, and every guest who had attended the Fairfest Ball in previous years had no issue in identifying her immediately.
The entire hall burst into a cacophony.
Asterin raised a hand. Silence fell. She addressed the crowd. “What all of you have just seen,” she began, gesturing to herself and Priscilla, “—is the work of contralusio, a substance that strips the falsities of anything it touches, leaving only the truth. There were three vials. One for Priscilla Montcroix, one for me to prove that I hide nothing from you all. And finally …” She turned to Princess Rowena, the earth-wielder from Galanz. “One for you, Princess Rowena. Your scholarly papers on magical substances and their properties are most esteemed in my kingdom and its academies. Should anyone doubt what has happened here tonight, I ask and entrust you to verify my claim. Do you accept?”
Rowena’s brows rose in surprise. “Honorably, Princess Asterin,” her distant cousin answered.
Asterin tossed the third vial to Rowena, the contralusio catching the light like a mysterious jewel. “You have my gratitude.”
“And what of this witch?” Queen Valeria demanded, raising her chin toward Priscilla.
“She deserves death!” cried Prince Viyo, which earned him a glare from his older sister.
Asterin leveled Priscilla with a look so cold that it sent chills up Eadric’s spine. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
A look of absolute murder descended onto Priscilla’s face as she looked Asterin dead in the eye and snarled, “I hope you burn.”
A deafening bang tore through the air.
An explosion of blackness threw Eadric backward—an explosion of shadow. He landed hard on his side, agony tearing up his chest as a ribbon of shadow wrapped itself around his torso and squeezed.
“Son of a bitch,” he wheezed over the screams ringing through the ballroom, his vision flashing red as something hot and wet dripped down his face. Cursing, he tried to grab at the shadows, but they slipped through his fingers like eels, branching and spreading out until he managed to free his skystone and conjure a jolt of electricity. The shadows solidified for a beat before finally dissipating with a hiss.
Eadric blacked out.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
If not for her training and the reflexes Quinlan had forced her to hone, Asterin was fairly sure that she would have vaporized on the spot when Priscilla had shattered her ice restraints in an explosion of shadow.
Even then, Asterin just barely managed to hurl up a shield in time to deflect the onslaught of darkness and the barrage of ice chunks. Quinlan, standing beside her, reacted even more swiftly, shielding several of her Elites and the other guests closest to the blast. Dozens of other shields crackled alive like weak torches against the storm of shadow around the ballroom.
Priscilla fled—her hulking, demonic wings flexing as she leapt into the air and spread them wide, launching over the bodies and debris. She nearly slammed headfirst into a wall, but after a few more experimental flaps, she soared out of the ballroom.
From across the room, Rose locked eyes with Asterin behind her own wall of green light, a single word moving on her lips.
Go.
“Silas!” Asterin shouted at the oldest Elite. “Assemble the Elites and evacuate the guests. No one follows—it’s too dangerous. Understood?”
At Silas’s firm nod, Asterin and Quinlan thundered out of the ballroom after Priscilla.
Unfortunately, flying proved to be much faster than running.
“She’s getting away,” Quinlan said. He reached for Asterin. “Take my hand.”
Asterin only had a moment to acknowledge the strange, euphoric sensation of Quinlan’s magic surging through their locked hands like an electrical current before a gust of wind swept her off the ground. Her stomach dipped as he angled them forward, increasing their speed, their toes skimming the floor.
Flying—they were flying.
The corridors whizzed by as they gained on Priscilla. The woman’s enormous wingspan cost her precious time—narrow hallways and sharp turns forced her to pull her wings in and extend them again every flap.
As they closed in on her, Priscilla let out an angry screech, sounding more beast than human. She clutched her affinity stone and pelted them with orbs of swirling darkness. Quinlan swerved wildly, doing his best to dodge them. The orbs splattered onto the walls and floor, corroding the marble to sludge. Asterin yelped as one missed her face by a mere inch.
Priscilla swooped up the grand stairway. Quinlan swore and lurched after her, nearly popping Asterin’s arm rig
ht out of its socket before he managed to wrangle his wind affinity back under control.
With each flight of stairs, they grew closer to Priscilla. Fingers outstretched, Asterin could almost reach out to rip off a wing—
Priscilla veered onto the third floor and smashed a hole through the first door on the left.
With another bitten-back curse, Quinlan steered them through the hole. They landed hard on the marble floor of a large antechamber used for court meetings.
Priscilla skidded across the long oak table on all fours, her talons leaving deep gouges along its surface. She leaped off the end and glanced over her shoulder at Asterin, twirling her affinity stone between spindly fingers. Asterin saw that the once azure illusionstone was now clouded jet black.
A shadowstone.
“Daughter,” she said, the word dripping off her tongue like sweet poison.
Asterin balled her fist around her omnistone. “Don’t you dare call me that.”
Priscilla giggled. “Finally figured it out, did you? Clever girl,” she crooned. “Only took you a decade.”
Rage swelled through Asterin, drowning out every sound, every thought. Cracks shuddered across the floor. She raised her arms, and two enormous slabs of marble quivered upward.
Then she closed her eyes and hurled the slabs with all her might at the woman she had once called her mother.
Except there came no screech of pain, of death—only a peculiar sensation wriggling at the base of Asterin’s skull.
You can’t close your eyes in battle, Rose had told her in Aldville.
When Asterin opened her eyes, Priscilla smiled, false pity written across those horrid features. Standing at the far end of the oak table with the marble slabs suspended in stillness above her, the woman brought her shadowstone down in an arc, as if delivering a fatal blow in slow motion. And perhaps she is, Asterin realized when her arms lowered against her will, bringing the slabs to a gentle rest at the queen’s feet.
